


Ghoul Boys

by myhamsterisademon



Series: The Dream Life [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, But mostly fluff, F/F, Grief/Mourning, M/M, bookshop au, light angst here and there to keep things interesting, not too much of it though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2020-11-07 13:47:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20818289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhamsterisademon/pseuds/myhamsterisademon
Summary: D'Artagnan's convinced the bookshop is haunted. He can literally feel it in his stomach-- along with the six cups of coffee he's downed in the past three hours.





	1. Chapter 1

“The bookshop can’t be haunted for one simple reason: ghosts don’t exist,” Aramis confidently says, dropping the cardboard box on the counter and almost knocking off d’Artagnan’s university stuff. “I need you to put Porthos’ old school things here, he wants to burn it in a bonfire or something. I think it’s technically illegal but you know how it is, be gay and do crimes. You need to stop binge-watching Buzzfeed Unsolved episodes. The bookshop _ isn’t _haunted.”

“Well, fine, it’s not haunted_ per se_. It’s sentient. It knows things. It hears things,” d’Artagnan answers, deliberately not asking about Porthos’ bonfire. The man gets this urges, once in a while, where he wants to destroy anything that has to do with highschool or university, every time in a different fashion. Last time he wanted to bury everything, before that he wanted to drown it. He always ends up keeping everything, though, and eventually he forgets about it. 

Aramis just stares at d’Artagnan, unimpressed, as the words sink in. He shakes his head, clicking his tongue against his teeth.

“It _ hears _things?”

“Really!” d’Artagnan insists. “Like -- yesterday morning, right? When you guys were all out and I was here alone, I was studying for an exam, but I had forgotten my chemistry book at home and I couldn’t go back because you shits haven’t given me back my keys --”

“Yet,” Aramis precises. “It’s temporary, babe. Until you stop losing your own fucking pair. Do you know how much a copy costs, nowadays?”

“Whatever. Athos can afford it.” 

“Yes well, he’s not your sugar daddy, is he? Not that I would complain you calling him that,” he adds, suddenly smiling that huge, filthy smile of his.

“Thank you but no thanks,” comes Athos’ voice from the back room. “I’d rather sort my daddy issues in any other way than having a man who’s decidedly not young enough to be my son call me _ daddy_.”

“No one cares about your daddy issues, Athos!” d’Artagnan snaps, more harsh than he intended to. He’s on edge, is the thing, what with the final exams coming up, and the worst part is that he realises it -- the way he always clenches his fists and jaw, even now, to the point that his head aches all the time -- the way he’s always literally standing on his tiptoes and fiddling with his pens. 

There’s a beat of meaningful silence and then d’Artagnan sighs.

“Sorry, love. We all care about your daddy issues,” he lies.

Athos merely dignifies his apologies with a soft huff. Aramis shakes his head again and leans on the counter.

“All right, Ghoul Boy. Tell me about your ghost.”

D’Artagnan sighs again and reflexively unclenches his whole body. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, rubbing his eyes. “I know I sound insane. Fuck, I _ feel _insane, but there it is. I didn’t have my chemistry book, so I looked up and bam! I see this other chemistry book -- not my edition, another one, but still chemistry -- right there on top of all the other ones, right when I needed it, and thanks to it I got the highest mark. Since when do we sell chemistry books?”

Aramis shoots a glance at said book, which d’Artagnan is, for some reason unknown even to himself, clutching against his chest (_ God,_ he’s tired). Aramis clicks his tongue again. 

“That’s Porthos’ old book,” he says.

“I know,” d’Artagnan says, nervously clicking his pen, “I saw the giant dick drawings. His ego was very large.”

“Yes, well, everything about him is very large, am I right?” Aramis says, not even holding back the same dirty grin.

“How mature of you,” Athos chimes in again and Aramis merely cackles. D’Artagnan rolls his eyes, but mentally agrees wholeheartedly.

“Give me the book, it goes in the cardboard box,” Aramis says, holding out his hand.

D’Artagnan clutches the book harder, feeling stupid as fuck.

“No,” he says anyways.

Aramis raises his eyebrows, but drops his hand.

“And then, just let me tell you about this other time,” d’Artagnan insists and the other man hums, “I was just standing there in the middle of the room, Athos was back there --”

“Oh, I bet he was,” Aramis interrupts again, still smiling like the horny teenager he is.

“Just -- shut up. Athos was in the back, doing I don’t know what, and I’m standing there, and all of a sudden the bell rings. Twice. Loudly. And no, it was _ not _a gust of wind, the door was closed.”

His boyfriend merely sighs. 

“In his defense, the bell did ring,” Athos says, his voice suddenly much closer than before. He’s moved from the back room, finally, and he joins d’Artagnan behind the counter, putting an arm around his waist. The lad instantly relaxes, the feeling of Athos’ heavy woolen jumper a comforting weight on his body. He feels a hand lightly squeezing his size, and when he looks at Athos, the man smiles fondly, and ducks to kiss his forehead.

“You think it’s haunted,” Aramis says dryly. “Really. A _ bookshop_.”

“I’m not saying it’s haunted, I’m saying the bell did ring.”

“There are hundreds of perfectly good scientific explanations for that. And about the book, a mere coincidence,” Aramis, predictably, says, impatiently drumming his fingers against the wood. 

“Well, fine, I didn’t want to say it because this one does sound circumstantial evidence, but this other time --”

“_Jesus fucking Christ. _”

“Do you ever feel like there’s something weird in this place?” d’Artagnan asks again, about a week later, when Aramis and Athos aren’t there and it’s just him and Porthos. This latter is kneeling on the floor by a pile of books, sorting them out and trying to decide in which one of Athos’ weird categories they go. D’Artagnan’s sitting on the floor, holding a cup of coffee in his hands -- he hasn’t slept decently in four days and he’s so tired he’s actually full of energy. A strange state. It feels like he could run a marathon but he cannot form a coherent sentence for the life of him.

“Weird? How weird?” the man asks, distracted. “Where do you think this one goes? _ Mademoiselle de Maupin?_ Technically it’s a classic but the summary seems to imply there’s queer stuff in it.”

“Don’t know. Just wherever,” d’Artagnan answers, and it might be because he’s exhausted and he feels like he’s hallucinating this conversation, but he can’t help being incredibly annoyed by the fact that Porthos isn’t taking him seriously. “And weird like it’s haunted,” d’Artagnan specifies, “and maybe you could listen to me, for once,” he snaps.

Porthos sighs and the smart part of d’Artagnan’s brain thinks that it’s a miracle that the man hasn’t kicked him in the nuts yet. He’s been insufferable, lately, he knows it, but he’s too stressed out to do anything about it.Eventually he’ll profusely apologise, but he knows he doesn’t deserve it. 

“I can listen and sort books out at the same time,” Porthos says with another long-suffering sigh. “All right. Haunted. Haunted like what? Like doors-are-banging, whispers-in-the-night, children-laughing haunted?”

“No like --” d’Artagnan waves his hands -- “like it knows when you need things. Like, it sort of adjusts itself to your needs.”

Porthos doesn’t answer.

“You high, babe?” he finally asks, just as d’Artagnan is about to scream.

_ God, I wish_, d’Artagnan thinks. Or maybe he says it out loud, judging by the worried glance Porthos shoots him.

“All right,” the man says, getting up, stretching his back and then his knees. They pop, loudly. “Get up. Let’s go home. You need food and rest. Have you been sleepin’ well, lately?”

“What’s _ sleepin’ well__?_ Never heard of that in my life.”

“_Christ _, dude.”

“You don’t actually think it’s haunted,” Porthos says on the ride home, trying to sound convincing, but ineffectually. “I mean -- I’m not sayin’ that ghosts don’t exist. Who am I to know, some things can’t be explained, the world is too old to be all made of science, yadda yadda. But it’s a just _ bookshop_.”

“It’s the same bookshop where we met,” d’Artagnan says, without thinking. Again, it’s probably the fact that he’s been surviving basically only on caffeine and the mere will to live, but the filter between his brain and mouth doesn’t exist. “It’s not just a bookshop. It’s special to me.”

“Aw, you babe,” Porthos says and brings d’Artagnan’s hand to his lips, kissing the knuckles. He doesn’t let it go, after that -- he holds it the whole ride home, his thumb caressing it lightly all the time, and d’Artagnan falls asleep like that. 

“Y’know, sweet, I think he might be right. About the hauntin’ shit. That bookshop _ is _old as all fuck.”

“Age doesn’t equal paranormality,” Aramis answers, tactfully ignoring d’Artagnan’s frustrated groan. “I can’t believe we’re still talking about this.”

“All I’m sayin’ is that there _ might _be a possibility.”

“How can you _ not _ believe in ghosts?” d’Artagnan chimes in, his voice slightly muffled by the pillow and by the fact that Porthos’ is resting whole weight on his chest. “You’re a _ Catholic_. Aren’t Catholics supposed to believe in souls and all that?”

“I’m also a rampant bisexual,” Aramis deadpans. “And Catholics aren’t supposed to fuck other men. And yet here I am, about to fuck two of them, if they only could _ shut up _ about the ghosts.”

D’Artagnan promptly shuts up. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: very very brief mention of Athos' former alcohol problem, no actual alcohol drinking, no actual discussion of alcoholism. Still felt like I should warn you.
> 
> so. I'm back on my bullshit. anyways the only good thing about this quarantine is that I feel morally obligated to actually update this story, so I hope I can post chapters a bit more regularly now.  
I have a VAGUE idea of where this is going, but I will probably just be fulfilling my own need of romance and physical affection.  
ps English still isn't my first language! Feel free to yell at me if you find any mistakes.

It’s not that d’Artagnan is scared, really. He’s never been scared of ghosts in his life, partly because growing up at a farm gets you used to hearing strange and potentially alarming sounds all the time, and partly because he isn’t the kind of person who gets spooked easily. 

So he’s not scared, per se, he’s just… _ unnerved_. And annoyed at the fact that nobody actually believes him. Aramis downright says he’s been hallucinating, Athos simply doesn’t seem to care and Porthos just looks surprised whenever the topic is mentioned, looking like it’s the first time he’s heard of ghosts. It’s frustrating, the way strange, unexplained things happen only when he’s alone. That’s the whole point of being haunted, he supposes, but _ still._

He’s completely alone in the bookshop, right now, the last customer having scuttled off while holding a first edition of their favourite book as if their life depended on it (an always satisfying view; while d’Artagnan isn’t much of a reader himself, it’s always lovely to see someone leave the place a little happier than they first came in). He’s completely alone -- well, _ physically _ alone, since there’s clearly something in the bookshop that is having a _ grand time _teasing the fuck out of him.

Nothing big has happened yet, but there’s little, insignificant things that don’t make much sense, that he cannot explain, but that aren’t grand enough to actually _ prove _ a haunting. Pens that randomly go missing and reappear a couple of minutes later (it could be his ADHD), books found in the wrong section (it could be Athos’ new sorting program), the tea box that is suddenly empty despite having been just filled, the cash having been messed up, sorted out again but left halfway through (it could be Aramis, who _ loved _ tidying things up but was unable to _ actually _ finish the fucking job) -- there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for each of these events, of course, but d’Artagnan just _ feels _ in his core, deep in his heart that there was something _ more _to it.

As he’s pondering over this, chewing his pen, the ceiling fan suddenly starts working, slowly but steadily, and d’Artagnan looks up.

“Stop that immediately,” he says. 

The fan stops.

“What if it’s Dad?” he says one afternoon that Inès is visiting his apartment. He hasn't seen his other sisters in a while, they're all rather busy with their various projects. Only Inès keeps in contact, probably because she feels it's her duty as the elder sister, and because she's a control freak. 

He's being unfair, obviously, but then again when one has slept a total of five hours in three days, being nice acquires a whole other importance. 

"I don't see why our dead father would want to haunt a bookshop he's never been in," she says, and she's right, obviously. 

"Well, what if he's doing it to be with me? He's not haunting the bookshop, he's haunting _ me ._" 

"Why would he haunt _ you _? He's got three other children," she says and, again, she's not wrong. He hates that, so he childishly mutters something under his breath, staring at her as she wanders around the small apartment, picking up dirty clothes, books, papers and grimacing whenever she notices how dusty it all is. 

"You need to clean this stuff," she says, disgusted. 

"I've barely got the time to piss, let alone to clean things up," he snaps, and she stares at him. 

"You should take some rest," she says, predictably, and d'Artagnan, predictably, rolls his eyes. "Seriously," she insists. "You should come home. Spend some time with me and Guillaume and the kids. Bring one of your boys, if you have to."

He grimaces as she bends to pick up a sock from the under the only sofa he has in the tiny living room, both because he hates that expression (_his boys_, as if they were some kind of kept lads that he uses for sex, as if he didn't sincerely love them, as if they were boys when the three of them are all older than him) and both because he hates the idea of having to deal with Inès' family. 

"I'll see if they want to," he mutters, knowing full well he won't even mention the invitation to them. It's not that he hates his sister, nobody could possibly _ hate _ Inès, it's just… he likes it better when they're far from each other. 

"You know," he says that evening as Athos busies himself in the kitchen (it's just the two of them that evening, Aramis having taken Porthos out to see some kind of movie that neither Athos nor d'Artagnan care for), "Inès invited me to spend some time with her and her husband in the countryside." 

"Oh," Athos said. "I gather from the way you say it that you didn't accept."

"No," d'Artagnan confirms, glad for once that Athos is so good at reading him, "I didn't. I just… don't like it there. Not without my dad."

Athos hums. 

"There's something else," he says, quietly, not as a question but more like an invitation. 

"She said one of you could come. But she called you _my boys,_" he grimaces at the memory. 

Athos hums again. 

"We're hardly boys," he says. "I'm almost thirty-five, Porthos is thirty-three and Aramis is a thirty-two year old with the brain of a sixteen-year-old." 

"She didn't mean it like that," is the answer. "I think she has a hard time accepting… you know, all of us, all of this."

Athos makes a sound again, arching an eyebrow. 

“I thought she supported you,” he said, voice quiet. “Last time she sounded cheerful, even.”

“She worries, I think. You know how she gets, all worked up. She didn’t even believe me when I told her about the ghost.”

“That’s because no one believes you, love,” Athos says, and d’Artagnan gives him the finger. “It’s a _ bookshop_. No one was murdered, except your dignity --” d’Artagnan flips him off again -- “and maybe a couple of spiders and flies, but I hardly think they have the emotional energy to actually haunt us.”

“Last time you defended me, with Aramis,” he protests, indignant. 

“That’s because I like contradicting him. And I did not _ defend _ you, I merely suggested that you _ may _be right, in some way. That does not prove that my bookshop is, in fact, haunted by a restless spirit in search of a door to the afterlife.”

D’Artagnan smirks, getting up from the floor and latching onto Athos’ back, while the other man stirs something on the frying pan.

“You’ve gotten all posh again,” he says, nuzzling his neck, nibbling gently when Athos sighs quietly. “I like it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he repeats, and he can’t really help that his voice has gone husky, nor can he help kissing Athos’ neck, the part of his jaw that he manages to reach, his cheek. Athos stops stirring the food and turns off the flame, resting his hands on the counter.

His pulse has gotten a little quicker, d’Artagnan can feel it against his lips, his tongue as he licks his neck. And he can’t deny that _ his _heart is beating faster even than Athos’.

“We’re going to ruin this excellent carbonara,” Athos says, his voice unconvincing even to him. 

“Takeout. Pizza. Whatever. As long as I can have _ you _for dinner.”

Athos suddenly turns around, grabs his hips and kisses him, all teeth and tongue and bites, stumbling across the living room until they fall on the couch.

They end up ordering pizza, two hours later. 

“So, about your sister,” Athos says suddenly, as d’Artagnan rests, half-sprawled on his belly on Athos’ naked chest, his head laying against his skin, listening to his heartbeat. They’re on the couch, more or less, clothes discarded everywhere, and Athos is eating d’Artagnan’s pizza crusts, probably getting crumbs in his hair. He doesn’t care about it, not with Athos’ naked arm around his waist, his free hand brushing along his spine. 

He feels alright, _ finally_, boneless and relaxed and sated. It might be from the _ amazing _sex he just got, but it’s also Athos’ whole presence. His voice, deep and soothing and calm. 

“No,” he says, too tired to protest any further.

“Let me finish, you heathen. All I’m saying is that you should at least consider the possibility that she may want to properly meet us. It’s her way of processing the whole thing. Do you know how long it took for Aramis’ parents to accept us?”

“Three days. They already follow me on Instagram. They’re lovely.”

Athos grumbles. 

“I’m not inviting you over to my sister’s,” d’Artagnan says, raising his head and staring at Athos’ blue, earnest eyes. He kisses his lips briefly and cups Athos’ cheeks, thumbs brushing against the spot where dimples form when he smiles. “It’s a mess. She’s a mess. We’re a mess. After dad died… we just went a little batshit. You remember how I was, yeah? Crying in your bookshop? That’s the most normal thing that happened to me or my family. Geneviève went backpacking across Europe and we didn't hear from her for two weeks. Inès wanted to divorce her husband. Aimée got a tattoo on her calf.”

“That’s normal. Grieving. Coping mechanisms. I used to drink after my brother died. I think that between getting drunk every night and getting a tattoo, the latter is decidedly healthier. Besides, _ you _have a tattoo. And it’s very pretty, too,” he adds a second later, his fingers trailing down to d’Artagnan’s tailbone, where he knows there's a shape of a raven, all black except for the beak. His fingers trail further south.

D’Artagnan’s breath hitches, a whole shudder going through his body as Athos' fingers brush _right_ where he wants them, and he manages to mutter something about Aimée’s crippling fear of needles before Athos hushes his moan with a kiss. 

“On our _ couch_, Athos. _ On our couch_.”

“You both have done much worse in my bookshop, and I didn’t throw so much of a fuss,” is the deadpan answer.

“On my _ couch_. You shagged on my couch.”

“Technically it’s mine, considering that _ I _ bought it.”

“Yes, but_ I _ chose it. If it were up to you, we would still be living on that weird sofa made with plastic bottles. You broke the No Sex On The Couch rule.”

“You’re bein’ a hypocrite, Aramis. We broke the No Sex On The Counter rule a thousand times,” Porthos chimes in, ducking down to kiss both Athos and d’Artagnan. “Besides, I’m personally not complainin’. Greatest sight I could wish for. Nice hickey, by the way.”

Athos blushes a deep red, deeper even than the mark which adorns his collarbone, and for the umpteenth time in the evening d’Artagnan actually finds himself glad that his skin is so sensitive.

Aramis grumbles something that sounds like an insult and flops on the carpet in front of them. Porthos grins at them both.

“So, what’s the news?” he asks, kneeling on the floor besides Aramis and putting his hand on Athos’ knee, squeezing a bit -- not trying to get sexy, just feeling him.

“One of us has been invited to visit Inès' house.”

D’Artagnan groans loudly. Aramis arches his eyebrow.

“Only one of us?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“So he’s going to have to choose between one of us?”

“I don’t like the way you’re putting it,” d’Artagnan says, his voice muffled by Athos’ hair, “but yes, I suppose so.”

“Well --” he pauses for a second for dramatic effect -- “let the Hunger Games begin, then.”


	3. Chapter 3

Three days later, he’s in the bookshop again, going through some of the cardboard boxes of donations. Most of them are old paperbacks of books they already have 15 copies of (_ Lord of the Rings, Sherlock Holmes, Pride and Prejudice _ and _ Jane Eyre _are some of the most popular), but they still keep all of them: Athos has this theory that we all have that one special edition of our favourite book, whether it is a fancy, leather-bound copy or a tattered paperback -- which is why he keeps all of them, knowing that one day, someone will come in and buy the one that speaks to them the most.

So he’s standing at the counter, the first pile of books in front of him, trying to sort them into a category which fits Athos’ weirdass tastes. Five minutes later, he renounces with a frustrated huff. It’s not that Athos’ system doesn’t work or doesn’t make sense, it’s just that he hasn’t read enough of these books to immediately know where they go, which is why he fishes out his phone and starts typing.

** _Groupchat: the Gayrrison_ **

**dartagnan, 13:09**

Where does the picture of dorian gray go again 

**Romantic Hero Type, 13:14**

Horror, I believe? 

**Porthos, 13:14**

Classics?? definitely a classic

**Romantic Hero Type, 13:15**

No, it goes with horror. 

**Porthos, 13:15 **

the classicness outranks the horrorness so, it goes with classics

**Romantic Hero Type, 13:15**

That doesn’t make any sense, it’s about a pact with the devil, it’s horror

**Porthos, 13:15**

its a classic!!! athos back me up here

**Romantic Hero Type, 13:16**

He’s not in this groupchat, you great oaf 

**Porthos, 13:16**

aye but, he’s right there with you

just open your pretty mouth and ask him

**Romantic Hero Type, 13:17**

Aye, matey 

**Romantic Hero Type, 13:20**

athos here. There is no goddamn "pact with the devil", it's about a painter who falls in love with his twink model and said twink model who discovers the wonders of sex and booze.

Which means that both of you are wrong. 

It goes in the gay section.

  
  


**Porthos, 13:20**

its gay?????

**Romantic Hero Type, 13:20**

Athos again. Yes, it’s gay. Gay as shit. Gayer than me.

D’Artagnan sighs and laughs to himself, shaking his head, picking up the book and setting it in the right section. He pretends not to notice when the perfectly sturdy wooden shelf creaks slightly under the trivial weight of a 200 pages paperback. He pretends not to notice either when the microwave in the backroom goes off with a loud ping, even though he hasn’t actually been using it, but it reminds him that it’s lunchtime and he should probably heat the lasagna he’s brought from home. For once, the ghost seems to be making itself useful. 

He takes a deep breath, and makes a rather good imitation of Aramis’ voice, listing all the reasons why there cannot be a spirit in his bookshop, completely disregarding the fact that he’s contradicting his own thoughts.

He’s almost halfway through the list when the bell rings and he turns around, expecting the door to be closed and the bookshop to be empty (yes, _ all right_, he might be a _ little _unnerved) and, instead, finds Constance, who’s beaming at him, bright and happy, her cheeks dimpling and her eyes shining, the living image of cheerfulness. 

His breath stutters for a second. He may not be desperately, achingly, overwhelmingly in love with her anymore, but she’s still his dearest friend, and the sight of her never fails to make him choke a little. 

“Hi!” she says, and the next thing he knows her hair is in his mouth and her arms around his neck, hugging him so tightly it seems like they haven’t seen each other in ages, when really it’s been just a fortnight. 

Four minutes later they’re in the backroom (he technically should be at the desk, greeting potential customers, but frankly he doesn’t really care), he’s eating the lasagna while Constance busies herself around the crowded room, checking that their plants are correctly watered and lifting some papers out of the way. The couch they used to keep there broke down from an unspecified cause but, judging by Aramis’ grin and Athos’ blush when d’Artagnan asked about it, he’s pretty sure it was due to some healthy, vigorous activity. It seems Athos _really _has a big thing for couches. Not that he blames him, but he’d rather not be sitting on the floor. 

“How’s Anne?” he asks, because he loves hearing her talk about her fiancée, and also because he knows it will distract her from asking about _ him_. Problem is, Constance knows him too well, so she waves a hand in the air.

“The usual. Let’s talk about _ you_, Charlot.”

D’Artagnan wrinkles his nose in a grimace, both at the nickname (which he frankly loathes, not that that’s ever stopped Constance from using it) and the prospect of having to be open about his feelings.

“Appalling,” he says out loud. 

“Yes,” Constance vehemently agrees. “I’m not even going to address the issue of the weird ghost that’s apparently haunting the bookshop” -- she raises a hand when he opens his mouth to interrupt her -- “because I’m honestly not certain where _ that _came from. Now, I am the Shane Madej to your Ryan Bergara, so there’s no way you’re ever going to convince me of its existence, which means we can drop the topic without even touching it.”

“Harsh,” d’Artagnan says, mildly offended and slightly worried. He’s never liked it when Constance gets like this, all severe and hard and unrelenting but at the same time unbearably sweet and _ loving_, because he knows it will inevitably bring out Painful Truths that he has to face for _ his own good_, as she says. Like when she broke up with him, years ago, leaving him with a painful, humiliating sense of self-awareness, which he very well could have done without, and not a little anger.

“Yes,” she agrees again. “Harsh. Am I going to have to be harsh, Charles?” she says, and she awfully sounds like a scolding parents, which d’Artagnan _ hates _ with all his heart. He grits his teeth, bites back the scalding reply he wants to shout and doesn’t look at her in the eyes, because he doesn’t want her to see the _ anger _in there.

He can’t look at her.

He _ can’t_.

He also wants her to mind her own business, because he’s not a child, for fuck’s sake, and he cannot stand it when she gets in these Parenting Modes -- it almost seems like he should be _ grateful _for the scolding he’s about to get. He sets his jaw and keeps eating, the fork clicking hard against the dish. He forces himself to eat slower, his heartbeat increasing, thumping lowly into his ears and eyes.

“Your sisters _ miss _ you,” she says, surprisingly soft. “They _ need _you, d’Artagnan.”

“Well, I don’t need _ them_,” he barks out. He blinks for a second, surprised that he actually spoke the words, and lets the truth of them sink in, blood surging to his face and heating him up, whether it is with shame or resentment he doesn’t know. Constance is silent and, since he’s _ still _ not looking at her _ goddammit_, he doesn’t know if she’s shocked at his insensitivity, surprised at his sincerity or even triumphant that she managed to get him to admit a Painful Truth _ again_.

“You don’t need your own sisters?” she asks, and he knows, if he were to raise his eyes, it would be the first of the three options he’d see. Dimly, bitterly, he realises it’s actually much worse than he expected, hurting in a sharp sort-of-way, like a knife in the back, like a treason. “I’m not -- Jesus Christ, will you look at me?”

He does, shamefaced, self-reproaching, scornful, stubborn in his own grief, and his eyes must be dimmed because something clicks in Constance’s face and she sinks to her knees, in front of him, suddenly grasping his hands and holding tight.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says, “I’m being a fucking judgemental idiot, aren’t I?” 

“A bit,” he croaks, but manages a laugh, distantly grateful that she has realised her injustice, selfishly happy that for once _ she’s _the one who’s made a mistake and who’s going to have to acknowledge a Painful Truth. 

“Sorry,” she says, contrite, and he forgives her immediately, envying her for the simplicity in which she manages to confess her blunders, without overdoing her apology or, on the opposite, closing in on herself for shame and pride -- which _ yes_, is exactly what _ he _does all the time. “I didn’t mean it like that. It just seems a bit unfair to me that you don’t want to be with your family, but you spend most of your time with the boys. Inès is afraid you’re replacing them.”

D’Artagnan shrugs, still a bit overwhelmed, and sobs out a breath. Constance sighs, gripping his hands again.

“I’m going to that blasted dinner of hers,” he says, still a little reproachful because he can’t help it, “and I’m even bringing one of the others. Isn’t that enough?”

Constance actually looks a bit surprised. 

“She invited one of them? Did she specify which?”

“No,” he says, grimacing again. “She just said to bring, and I quote, _ one of my boys_. I’d rather bring you, to be honest,” he admits. “I’m not quite ready to introduce them to the whole family, you know. Not because of _ them_, because of _ my family_,” he adds hastily, and Constance presses on his hands, signalling that she already knew what he meant.

“I mean, I could come, if you want me to,” she says, softly, and a quick understanding passes between them: it’s her unspoken way of making amends for her previous meddling. He nods numbly, oddly not feeling anything. “You’ll have to explain to the boys, though,” she carries on, more sternly. “In _ detail_. Telling them everything. They’ll understand, of course, but --”

“--communication is key,” he interrupts, in a purposeful drawl, and her laughter rings in the room while he tiredly smiles at her. The heaviness hasn’t quite dissipated yet, but almost. 

The copper bell in the main room rings softly as Constance laughs, and when, ten seconds later they go back, d’Artagnan isn’t surprised at all to see the bookshop empty.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for brief discussion of drugs and alcohol. None is actually taken.
> 
> Also d'Art is a gigantic asshole in here but he's valid. Also a bit of angst but no more than the usual he-just-lost-his-father-and-his-family-is-a-mess shenanigans.

That same evening, d’Artagnan crawls into his bed, so drained from emotional energy he almost feels lightheaded. He might be even slurring his words a bit when Athos calls him to ask about his day and he probably dozes off very soon after, maybe even mid-sentence, because he suddenly wakes up to a slightly panicky voice saying his name.

“What?” he says, as his brain slowly, painfully registers the fact that he hasn’t taken his shoes off, that he hasn’t brushed his teeth and that his head is pounding. “Ugh,” he groans, as a particularly vicious stab needles through his eyeballs.

“Are you drunk?” Athos asks, and even through the hazy fog that’s clouding his mind, d’Artagnan can hear something in his voice that sounds like worry mingled with resentment.

“What the fuck,” he says, a bit breathlesssly, because _ what the fuck_. 

“Are you _ drunk? _ High? Intoxicated?” Athos asks again, and this time the anxious edge of his voice is a little clearer. “Will you _ answer _me, please?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” d’Artagnan says, because what is he supposed to say to that? He closes his eyes for a moment and the pain recedes a little, settling into a dull ache at the back of his head and forehead. With the pain he’s feeling, he _ actually _might as well be hungover. 

“Well?” comes from the phone again and d’Artagnan has to resist the urge of throwing it across the room. He breathes in deeply, realises the best course of action is to briskly reassure Athos that no, he is not drunk in the middle of the week five days before an important exam, and then go back to fucking sleep. 

“No,” he says, weakly, his voice croaky and it hurts to _ talk_. “Headache. I’m going to bed,” and he hopes it’s over, but clearly it _ isn’t _ because Athos asks if he wants someone over and d’Artagnan can’t think of anything he wants _ less _ right now; Aramis with his eagerness and excitement and laughter and energy, or Porthos with his booming laughter and overall big presence -- all features which he usually loves and cherishes but that right now he feels he could _ hate_. 

“Dunno,” he mumbles and winces. “Only if you’re quiet. It _ hurts,” _ he sobs, and his voice comes out high and whiny and it pierces through his eyes and ears and head and _ fuck. _

“Quiet as a mouse. Do you have painkillers?”

“I don’t know,” he answers, because he doesn’t want to _ think_, he just wants to crawl under his bed and disappear from the world. "Don't you dare ring the doorbell," he says before hanging up and putting a pillow over his head. 

He falls asleep, probably, or maybe he passes out, or maybe he just dies and miraculously resuscitates, because when he wakes next his eyes are throbbing and his throat is parched. 

"Ugh," he groans. Nobody answers; which means he's blissfully alone. 

And then the fucking doorbell rings. 

"Sorry," Athos says, briskly and quietly. "I called you but you wouldn't pick up the phone."

D'Artagnan mumbles something, dragging himself back to bed, ignoring the fact that he hasn't kissed Athos yet. He's grumpy, is the thing, still achy and sore and tired and, most importantly, horrendously behind with his studies. He's going to have to pull an all-nighter again, and now he wishes Athos weren't here, because d'Artagnan's afraid he's going to force him to rest or eat or do anything at all. And also because _ he rang the fucking doorbell_. 

"I thought you had my keys," he says as soon as he's back under the sheets. Athos drops his bag on the floor, takes his shoes and shirt and pants off, leaving only socks and underwear (which is fucking _ ridiculous_, in d'Artagnan's opinion, not that that's usually a problem, but today it _is_) and slides in with him.

"Well, yes, but it hardly seemed appropriate to just barge in. I felt like I would have been taking advantage."

"Nonsense," he mutters, more because he needs to say something than anything else. "I wasn't drunk," he says then, as he abruptly remembers the previous conversation, and the resentment that comes along with the memory almost shocks him, vicious and angry and unreasonably _ bad_. "Nor high, Athos. And even if I had been, you don't need to _nanny_ me."

Perversely, he wants to add something like _ just because you have an alcohol problem, doesn't mean everyone else does, _which is why he bites the inside of his cheeks until it bleeds. 

He's being whiny, he knows, but right now he can't think of a single thing that isn't irritating. He's achy, he feels cold all over, clammy with sweat, the artificial lights stabbing through his eyes in a painful, jarring way -- so strong he can almost fucking _ hear _ it. 

He hates this feeling, being irritated by someone for nothing, being perfectly aware of the fact that he has no reason at all to want Athos to just get the fuck out of his house -- he _ knows _ it, the reasonable part of his brain _ knows _ it -- which doesn't change the fact that he wants to kick Athos out of the bed (which is already narrow and uncomfortable), him and his scratchy socks and bony, uncomfortable shoulders. 

Athos looks at him, his eyes narrowing, and from the flare of his nostrils d'Artagnan knows they're edging into dangerous territory. He doesn't look like it, but Athos has a _ temper_: he can't stand tantrums or unjustified anger, can't stand petulance and has little patience with it. 

D'Artagnan can feel his face heating up a little, half in shame and half in guilt. 

Still, he doesn't apologise. He doesn't have the energy for it, really, if he talks himself into being sorry and guilty he won't stop thinking about what a bitch he's being and he's just going to exhaust himself even more. He might as well keep being a bitch. 

"Right," Athos says, voice dry and clipped. "I did not come here for a fight."

D'Artagnan nods and before he can think of an appropriate answer that isn't _ fuck you_, he's sleeping again.

When he next comes to himself, he feels slightly less like he's going to die. His head doesn't hurt as much as before, at least, but he's still bone-tired, an exhaustion so deep he can barely keep his eyes open. 

"Hi," he says, blinking owlishly. He clears his throat. "Ugh. Kill me."

"I might just as well," Athos says, in his amused-but-not-really tone of voice. 

"Fuck off," d'Artagnan mutters under his breath. He snuggles to the warm body next to him, though, rests his head on Athos' chest and, quiet for a while, listens to his heartbeat. It's comforting, a dull _ thump thump thump _that strangely reminds him of his own headache, which doesn't really make any sense, but he can't bring himself to care at the moment. 

"Sorry," he says after a while, trying to sound a little contrite -- which he _ is _, he just doesn't have the energy to deal with that at the moment. "Didn't mean to be a dick."

Athos makes a sound in his throat. 

"It's fine," he says then. "You looked like shite, to be fair."

"Thank you, dear heart, I appreciate your honesty."

Athos' chest flutters, and d'Artagnan knows he's laughing silently. 

"Does your head still ache?" he asks then, and d'Artagnan nods, wearily. 

It's not his _ head _ per sé that hurts, it's his muscles, his brain, his body and his heart a little bit too. 

"I dreamed of my father," the lad says, suddenly remembering a fleeting image, not so much as a dream but a blurred figure, a shadow of a man which looked nothing like his father but that d'Artagnan was certain _ was _ him, in the irrational, strange, but bone-deep way in which we know things in dreams. 

His throat clenches, his heart aches, his stomach twists and he closes his eyes. Athos' arm snakes around his shoulders and d'Artagnan burrows into him, huffing loudly. 

"I just miss him a lot," he says, voice thin. "I miss being a family. I miss my sisters," he adds a couple of seconds later and sniffles, hating himself for sounding so whiny but not being able to stop. 

"Well," Athos says, a bit dryly, "they did invite you, didn't they?" 

D'Artagnan thinks, even though it hurts to do so. 

"Yes," he agrees. "I should probably go. I don't want to, though. I'm going to hate every single minute of it but if I don't go I'll regret not going and I'll feel bad."

He rolls on his stomach, trying to find a position that doesn't send needles through his brain.

There's a short silence, with Athos' fingers trailing and carding through his hair, and he manages to relax into the touch, a little bit, but he still keeps himself awake, tense, focusing on the renewed drumming in his head because he _ knows _ that he will fall asleep again if he lets himself slip -- and the idea is _ unbearable_, excruciating, because d'Artagnan knows that the figure he dreamed of _ isn't _ his father but he will still look for him in his sleep and that is far, far worse than a headache. 

"Do you prefer regret or remorse?" Athos asks then, quietly. 

"I prefer not having to answer philosophical questions while someone is screwing a bunch of rusty nails with an oversized hammer into my head."

Another quiet huff. 

"I don't mean to offend, but you're a pain in the arse when you're like this. There's no pleasing you," Athos says, rather archly, and d'Artagnan knows he'd rather leave, go back to Aramis and Porthos who aren't grieving, not anymore, and who don't get harrowing headaches every few weeks -- but Athos doesn't move. And the _ sweetness _ of it, the _ love _ and acceptance and _ knowledge _ and quiet understanding and absolute, unwavering, unquestionable _loyalty_ stabs him through the heart harder than any needle. 

His eyes sting a bit from the tears he's holding and his throat constricts into a sob he refuses to let out. 

_Christ. _He had no idea love could hurt so much. 

"Will you come with me to my sister's?" he asks then, because it's the least he can do -- both for those three men who, for some unexplained reason, love him so much _ and _ for himself, to stifle the guilt and the absolute _ mess _ that's in his head. D'Artagnan hides his face in the pillow in shame and embarrassment and _ dread _ already. "All of you? The three of you."

Athos kisses the top of his head, then what he can reach of his forehead and cheeks. D'Artagnan keens, a low sound in his throat. 

"Of course."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me on tumblr under @ivory--and--gold :))


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